


true north

by starscry



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Everyone Is Alive, Feel-good, M/M, Magic, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Spoilers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, inappropriate usage of the mirror dimension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 04:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14686748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: It starts with a coat, and turns into a game of one-upmanship gone horribly right.





	true north

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻/奇异铁】True north/极北之北](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671136) by [Clover_cherik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clover_cherik/pseuds/Clover_cherik)



> Translation into Vietnamese done by the wonderful kazuchan1582 available [here!](https://xanhmauxanhkhac.wordpress.com/2018/08/28/ironstrange-bac-thuc/)

It starts with a coat.

There’s something about defying death _again_ and surviving half-universal destruction and somehow defeating Thanos (Tony is, in all honesty, still not sure how they pulled _that_ one off) that puts everyone into a sort of suspended state of disbelief. They’re alive. Exhausted, feet almost in the grave, but alive to see another sunrise and none of them can believe they ever took their lives for granted. Tony comes to two realizations – one, that Pepper deserves someone better, someone more stable and less liable to die in a freak alien accident than he is, and that she’s one of his best friends and he loves her but _she deserves more_ ; and, two, that he _might_ have a small thing for Stephen Strange. It could just be his dick talking, but there’s something about the whole self-sacrificing ‘spare his life and I’ll give you the stone’ bit that made his chest swim.

Tony’s hit with the notion of _carpe_ fucking _diem_ like Mjölnir’s been swung right in his face; so, after he’s limped out of the rubble and shucked off his mostly-obliterated suit and staunched the mildly-concerning amount of blood dribbling from a shrapnel wound on his stomach, he says _fuck it_ , grabs a startled Stephen Strange by the lapels of his stupid cloak, and drags him in for a kiss. Stephen responds _much_ more favorably than Tony ever could have imagined, and all of the tension that had built up between them from the first moment they met to the time Stephen had come back _alive_ and in the flesh and not in a pile of ashes is released in a moment of fervor. Tony nearly dry-humps one out against Stephen’s leg, but ends up blue-balling himself when he collapses from exhaustion and pain and blood loss and Stephen carries him through a portal, still half-hard, to his old haunting grounds and a very surprised Christine. 

Time passes quickly, after that. The majority of Tony’s waking hours are devoted to rebuilding what’s been lost and helping Earth get back onto its feet after the tragedy wrought by Thanos. Stephen has his hands full with the Sanctum and keeping tabs on latent Multiverse threats while the universe is still slowly repairing itself, but they somehow always manage to find time to see eachother. Interdimensional rifts opened in Tony’s garage while he’s mid-work that lead to quick, heated fucks, the occasional trip down to Bleecker Street to relieve pent-up tension against the Sanctum walls (and Tony will never get used to that stupid fucking cape floating around while his mouth is on Stephen’s cock – he _swears_ that thing is giving him the evil eye), late nights spent in bed together. It’s a working arrangement; they’re intellectuals and defenders of Earth with needs, sort-of friends who occasionally hang out and more-than-occasionally fuck. It’s an arrangement. It works. 

There’s a point where it starts to become a little _more_ than an arrangement. Sometimes, Stephen will warp himself into Tony’s lab with takeout and drag him away from the project he’s been working on for three straight days in a coffee-and-Five-Hour-Energy-induced trance, and he forces Tony to eat something with substance and sleep for at least four hours. Other times, they’ll go out to grab a bite late at night and just talk and relax and unwind like two normal people that are maybe-sort-of-not-really dating do. 

When Tony wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes, still post-fuck-bare-ass-naked and clutching the sheets, sweating and gasping for breath and panicking after a too-real nightmare, Stephen’s there to calm him down and talk him through it and hold him as he falls back to sleep. And during the nights when Stephen is wide awake beside him and staring at the ceiling, the overwhelming clusterfuck that is his life finally catching up with him, Tony’s there for him because he _gets_ it. Stephen grounds him, and he grounds Stephen – they’ve both been through inexplicable, beyond-this-world shit that neither could even begin to explain to most people, but they don’t have to explain it to eachother. It’s refreshing. 

It’s a gradual change, but it happens, and neither of them addresses it. Tony doesn’t want to cross that bridge and ask _’what are we?’_ and risk fucking up whatever it is they have right now, because he _likes_ it and so few things have gone right in his shitty life, he wants to hold onto the one thing that’s somewhat stable. He likes to imagine Stephen feels the same. The ‘benefits’ part in their friends with benefits relationship comes to encompass more than just quick handjobs and hard, stress-release fucking. 

When Tony is struck one day with a sudden craving for greasy diner food at two in the morning, Stephen spirits them away to a quiet, 24-hour Denny’s nestled outside the eternal bustle of Manhattan (and Tony has to admit, having a pocket wizard to warp him wherever the hell he wants like some sort of interdimensional Uber driver is pretty convenient; he’s not so sure Stephen would agree, so he keeps that comment to himself). Even though Tony is rich enough to have whatever he wants delivered directly to his doorstep, nothing can compare to the liminal ambiance of an empty Denny’s in the middle of the night. It’s just the two of them – Tony digging into a Grand Slam, Stephen picking at a plate of fries and sipping coffee, discussing a recent journal article they’d both read about the future of applied cybernetics at a scuffed table in a dingy restaurant like all esteemed, world-protecting academics do. 

It’s not a spontaneous date – not really. Even though a small part of Tony likes to think it’s something akin to one. Stephen even offers to open a portal back to Tony’s home, like a true gentleman, but Tony declines. He glances out the smudged Denny’s window and watches fat flakes of January snow float lazily downward, illuminated by the soft glow of the outside street lamps. 

“It’s nice outside,” he says. “We should take the long way home.”

“The long way,” Stephen repeats dryly, “back to Greenwich Village. From Jackson Heights.”

“Oh, c’mon. Indulge me a little. Just a few blocks, then you can do your Harry Potter thing and take us back to your place.”

Stephen sighs, resigned, and Tony knows he’d won the battle before it had even begun. “Fine.”

They leave the Denny’s behind with the faint smell of greasy eggs and coffee clinging to their clothes, heading out into the winter night. It’s peaceful and quiet (as quiet as the city _can_ be), and Tony walks in silent step with Stephen, matching the taller man’s long strides while he watches the snow fall, the ground covered in a thin layer of white powder. 

His breath curls from his lips into the air, and the further they walk, the more aware Tony becomes of just how cold it is outside. The bit of warmth that had lingered for a bit after leaving the restaurant behind has dissipated, now. Dressed in a hoodie and grease-stained jeans, Tony realizes he hadn’t exactly prepared for a spontaneous snowy night walk. He glances sidelong at Stephen, clad in a thick black coat with his cloak wrapped around his neck like an oversized scarf; _someone_ obviously communed with the elemental gods or checked the weather app on his phone or whatever the hell sorcerers do before he got dressed, today. Tony crosses his arms over his chest, shivering, and tries not to seem too overtly jealous of how cozy Stephen looks. 

They walk in silence for a few more minutes before Stephen stops under a streetlamp. “Cold?” he asks, brow raised. 

“How’d you guess?” 

“My magical sixth sense,” Stephen replies, sarcasm lacing his tone. He tugs on one sleeve of his coat, pulling his arm through and then doing the same with the other. Tony is enveloped in sudden warmth when Stephen wraps it around his shoulders gently and pulls the lapels close. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“That’s why I have you,” Tony retorts, flashing Stephen a grin, teeth still chattering from the cold. He slides his arms through Stephen’s coat and pulls it tight around himself. It’s a size or two too large, and the sleeves are noticeably too long, but it’s warm and comfortable and smells like Stephen’s subtle, earthy cologne. 

Stephen rolls his eyes, but doesn’t make a typical smart-ass response. Tony finds the silence endearing.

The next morning, when he’s picking his clothes up off the floor of Stephen’s bedroom in the Sanctum and tugging them haphazardly on, he finds the coat where he’d thrown it over the back of a chair and picks it up. Tony pads over to Stephen and holds it out. “Thanks for letting me borrow this last night.”

Stephen, in the middle of putting his own clothes back on, thumbs a button through his shirt and pauses, giving Tony a considering look and shaking his head. “Keep it.”

“What?” Tony retorts, brows drawn. “It’s yours. I mean, it’s a nice coat, but I own plenty of nice coats already.”

“None of which you ever seem to wear,” Stephen notes airily, thumbing another button through one cuff of his shirtsleeve. “Consider it a gift.”

“I don’t n––”

“It’s not about whether or not you _need_ it, Tony; I enjoy giving gifts. It’s that simple. The coat looks nice on you, and I’d like for you to keep it. To wear it.” His tone is firm, obviously unwilling to argue the point any further no matter how bullheaded Tony insisted on being.

“All right,” Tony concedes, holding a hand in the air and conceding his defeat. “All right, I’ll keep it.”

“Try not to let it gather dust in your closet like the rest of your outerwear.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Later, after Stephen has portaled him home, Tony stands in front of the full-body mirror in his bathroom with the coat on and looks at his reflection. Stephen was right – it does look nice on him. It’s tasteful and chic, and even though Tony knows he’ll have to get the fit tailored a bit, he likes the way it hangs loose on him. 

As he stares at himself, he realizes that, as much as he’s come to know the man, Stephen doesn’t just _give_ gifts without a purpose. It’s more than just the coat – it’s the fact that Tony is wearing something of _his_ , like a display of his wealth, a claim. The thought annoys him, because why the hell would Stephen want to flaunt his status to _Tony_ , whose bank account is nearly as deep as the fucking Multiverse? 

If Stephen wants to play at some sort of monetary my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick game, Tony is all too willing to be dealt in. 

It starts with a coat, and turns into a game of one-upmanship gone horribly right.

\- - -

Over the next few days, Tony nonchalantly asks Stephen questions about his favorite things to eat. Fancy French shit is a no-go – he only ate that at bougie parties back before Kamar-Taj when had to suffer through long work dinners filled with younger doctors who would kiss his ass and offer him whatever disgusting hors d’oeuvres were being served. He’s not a particularly big fast food fan (which Tony, who considers himself a connoisseur of all things burger, is disappointed to hear), and tends more toward healthy cuisine. After a bit more prodding, Tony figures Japanese is a safe bet, and sets his plan in motion.

Stephen meets him, later, at the address Tony had texted him that morning, looking rather striking dressed in attractive casual clothes instead of his normal cloak and robes; as much as Tony has seen the man dressed in absolutely nothing, he finds he always enjoys seeing Stephen dressed like a normal man instead of looking like he should be standing on the Hollywood Boulevard sidewalk taking pictures with tourists for fivers. 

“Hey,” he says, waving as Stephen sidles up to him.

“Hey,” Stephen replies. “You’re wearing the coat.”

“Well, since _someone_ was so persistent about me wearing it..”

Stephen rolls his eyes and gives him a small, good-natured smile. He looks at the establishment in front of them, reading the sign that hangs above the restaurant’s entrance. “What is this place?”

“It’s a teppanyaki joint,” Tony answers. “Figured you might like it. C’mon, I’ve got a reservation for us.”

The inside of the restaurant is empty when they enter, save for a few waiters puttering around and two chefs standing behind the main grill. Only two places are set at the grill – just as Tony wanted.

“Reservation for Stark,” he says, smiling at the hostess. She smiles back and nods. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

Tony follows her, Stephen right beside him. “You didn’t,” he growls, low, beside Tony’s ear (and Tony resists the urge to shiver at that tone – one he’s become familiar with over the past few months spent in bed together). 

“Didn’t what?” he asks a bit _too_ nonchalantly.

“Didn’t _rent out the entire restaurant._ ”

“Was it that obvious?”

Stephen gives him a flat, unimpressed look.

“I did,” Tony says, taking his seat at one of the place-settings near the grill, “and you don’t need to worry about it. I’m paying, tonight. Whatever you want.”

“No, we’re splitting the check like we always d–”

“–Ah, ah,” Tony chides, cutting Stephen off. “It’s all on me. My treat. Just enjoy it. Let your bank account take a break.”

“Why?” Stephen asks, confusion furrowing his brow. “I’m fine with paying for myself like I always do.”

“What, I’m not allowed to treat my friends? Is that it?” 

“No, that’s not it – renting out an entire _restaurant_ goes beyond treating a friend, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, consider yourself a special friend. You’ve touched my life, and me. In more ways than one,” he adds, flashing Stephen a shit-eating grin. “Anyway, you were so _nice_ and all, giving me your coat – I thought I’d give you a nice night in return.”

Tony waves one of the waiters over and takes the proffered bottle of wine he’d already chosen, filling Stephen’s glass, and then his own. “Just enjoy it, Stephen. I’ll even let you do that thing with the ropes you like, later tonight.”

Stephen’s tense body relaxes considerably at that, a small smirk curving the edges of his lips. He takes the stem of his wineglass and swirls the spirit inside, bringing it to his lips and taking a long draw. “All right,” he concedes. “But I’m doing _more_ than just the ropes.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining.” 

Tony matches the other man’s smirk; from the glint in Stephen’s eyes, he knows he’s won this battle between the two of them, but hasn’t yet won the war.

\- - -

Tony wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn to his phone buzzing on the pillow by his head (god _damn_ , why had he left it there when he fell asleep?) and a text from Stephen that says _Check your email_ on the screen. He scrubs a hand down his face, thumbing the seemingly eternal bags beneath his eyes, and taps his email app.

“You’d better have a good reason for waking me up, Strange,” he mutters groggily to himself, scrolling through junk mail and stuff forwarded to him by Pepper and links to YouTube videos sent by Thor (who he’d finally caught up on Midgardian technology, getting him a phone and making him his very own email address so he wouldn’t have to, like, send out carrier ravens or whatever the hell Asgardians did to communicate long-distance), tapping on an untitled email sent to him by Stephen.

From: **Stephen Strange, M.D., Ph.D** [s.strange@kamartaj.edu]

Subject: (Untitled)

To: **Tony Stark** [tony@starkenterprises.com]

****

**FWD: Cyntexia Annual Science Gala**

Save the Date: Cyntexia’s 10th Anniversary Gala

Dear Dr. Strange,

Greetings from Cyntexia’s International Science Forum. We would be delighted to have you join us for a night of science and live music.

The Annual Gala will be held on Saturday, March 22nd, and will begin at 8:30 P.M. at the New York Hall of Science, and is set to offer an unforgettable evening to all in attendance. World-renowned nanobiologist and scientist, Dr. Anya Al-Shahrani, will deliver the keynote speech at this year’s Gala, and innovative presentations about the cutting-edge future of nanotechnology and applied biotics will be hosted by Drs. Angela O’Deorain and Olivia Colomar. 

On behalf of the Cyntexia International Science Forum, we look forward to your attendance at the Gala. 

Tony squints at the text on his offendingly-bright screen, reads it, reads it again, and tells FRIDAY to call Stephen immediately. 

“What is this thing you forwarded me? This invitation?” Tony asks as soon as the other line picks up.

 _“Good morning to you, too,”_ Stephen replies. _“It’s Cyntexia’s annual gala. You know them, right?”_

“Yeah, and yes – I can _see_ that. What does it have to do with me?”

_“I’d like you to be my plus one for the night. It’s right up your alley.”_

“What, you want me to schmooze with your doctor friends? I thought you weren’t in those circles anymore. Traded that life to be a part of the Fellowship of the Ring.”

_“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I thought you’d like to come spend an evening with other scientists and engineers and attend a few engaging presentations. Get away from dealing with the bureaucracy and the Avengers for a night and go back to your roots.”_

Tony considers this. He’s been up to his neck in U.N. bullshit and dealing with a slightly larger-than-normal amount of weird shit popping up that required Avenger attention for the past month, give or take. It’s been exhausting, and even though he’s been able to find time to go on a few outings ( _dates_ , his traitorous mind supplies) with Stephen and see Pepper and hang out with Rhodey, nothing has quite been able to ease the tension from him. A night spent with Stephen at a gala like this seems.. fun. It’s not something he’d ever consider if anyone else had asked him (Pepper, perhaps, aside, and _maybe_ Bruce), but his soft spot for Stephen seems to be growing larger by the day.

“All right, I’ll be your date,” Tony tells him. “What’s the dress code?”

_”Black tie. Shall I pick you up around eight twenty-five this Saturday?”_

“Sounds good to me.” Tony rolls over and puts his phone on the nightstand beside his bed, finger hovering over the end call button. “I’m going back to bed. Nighty-night.”

 

Stephen, true to his word, is standing outside Tony’s front door that Saturday at eight twenty-five on the dot, an open portal to a discreet location near the gala venue distorting the space behind him. 

“God, this is _way_ better than having a limo,” Tony says, nodding at the portal. “Y’know, you and your little wizard friends should start up a business. You’d make a killing if you charged for this shit.”

“Masters of the Mystical Arts,” Stephen corrects, though his tone is one of _why do I even bother_ as he speaks. “None of us would abuse our powers like that.”

“You seem to love to abuse yours, warping yourself to my place whenever you want some ass or get the wrong order at Starbucks and want someone else to drink it.”

“That’s different.”

“Really? How?”

“Because it’s you,” Stephen replies, as if that explains everything. “Let’s get going. The Gala’s about to start.”

Tony follows him through the portal and into the venue, immediately greeted with the familiar atmosphere of rich people mingling in overpriced suits and dresses, a string quartet playing mellow tunes in time with the low murmur of conversation to accentuate the ambiance. 

“Shall we?” Stephen asks, offering his arm.

Tony takes it. “Feels almost like I’m at my highschool homecoming dance all over again.”

Stephen lets out a soft snort of laughter. “Except this time,” Tony continues, “my date is much sexier.” He grins when Stephen ducks his head at the compliment, a hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

The hours tick by quickly as Tony is introduced to old friends and coworkers of Stephen’s from his college years and the years beyond spent in the medical field. Tony finds Anya Al-Shahrani charming, funny, and devastatingly sly, delighting in her incessant heckling of Stephen about how much of an ass he used to be during their undergrad days. They become fast friends over the course of an hour and several glasses of champagne and he quickly joins in on the badgering, much to Stephen’s chagrin. Anya’s keynote address is eloquent, and Tony enjoys the engaging presentations given by the two other doctors. 

Even though he’s already familiarized himself with most of what is presented, it’s refreshing to be in an academic setting like this, again, and the night itself is _fun_. Stephen loosens up after some champagne and most of the bourbon from the flask Tony stored away in his suit jacket before leaving home, and Tony loves the way the alcohol flushes his cheeks and makes him grin and laugh and crack wiseass jokes. He loves the way Stephen looks by the end of the night, his bowtie slightly loose and his hair mussed, relaxed and in his non-magical element. It makes Tony wish he’d known Stephen before his accident, wish that he’d been able to spend more time with him at events like these, even though Tony normally loathes them with a passion. With Stephen, he doesn’t. 

Tony doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten when they both collapse on stools at the bar, one of Stephen’s arms slung over Tony’s shoulders. The bartender ignores them, busy cleaning, and Tony is content to be ignored; aside from Anya, who is lost in conversation with a small group of lingering academics across the room, the place has emptied out, live string quartet swapped for a soft, crooning jazz recording, lights dimmed, the murmur of conversations replaced by the occasional _clink_ of empty glasses being collected. 

He leans into Stephen’s arm and watches as the other man flicks a small fire to life in the palm of his shivering hand like one would spark a lighter, holding it there for a moment before letting it fizzle out into curling smoke. It’s mesmerizing. Tony doesn’t often see Stephen idly using his powers like this, and he figures it must be the alcohol slackening his inhibitions a bit.

“Neat trick,” Tony murmurs. 

Stephen hums his agreement. Another fire sparks in his hand, this time larger, flickering as he holds it up for Tony to see. “Touch it.”

Tony extends a hand, tentative, but he trusts Stephen not to do anything that would hurt him. He holds his fingers above the flame and then, when he doesn’t feel anything, lowers them until they’re in the heart of it.

“It’s cold,” he says, surprise lacing his voice.

“Mm.” The blue at the heart of the fire flutters, then grows larger, consuming yellows and golds and flickering oranges until the entirety of the flame is dyed in cool hues. Stephen murmurs something Tony can’t quite make out, and the flame in his palm begins to curl inward and eddy – slowly, at first, like an idle whirlpool, growing faster, faster, faster until it’s churning and spiraling with the force of the sea in a storm. Stephen brings it closer to Tony’s face, curls his fingers around the vortex of flame, then splays them outward; a shower of small, blue sparks glitter in the air before him, floating downward and dissipating before they hit Tony’s lap.

The magic only lasts a moment, but Tony feels like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime. He meets Stephen’s eyes, and the other man offers a warm smile. 

“Hey,” Tony says.

“Hey,” Stephen replies.

“Thanks. For tonight, I mean. It was fun – and I don’t use that word lightly – being here, meeting your old friends.” 

“You _did_ rent out an entire restaurant for me. I tried to do you one better.”

“I’ll admit, you really did,” Tony chuckles. “It’s like you know me a _little_ too well.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. That’s up to you to decide, Doc.”

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

“Some people would disagree if they heard you say that.”

“I suppose _some people_ are entitled to their opinions, even if they are incorrect,” Stephen replies airily. 

Tony grins. “Aw. Are you honeying me up so you can take me from behind later?”

“Possibly. Or, perhaps, I’m complimenting you. Take it or leave it, Stark.”

“I’ll take it, then,” Tony says. “ _And_ I’ll let you take me from behind. Two-for-one deal.”

“Quite a bargain,” Stephen agrees.

Companionable silence lulls between them, Stephen watching the remaining gala attendees talk animatedly with Anya and Tony watching Stephen. 

“I miss this, sometimes,” Stephen murmurs, after a bit. Nods his head at Anya and the others, scientists and doctors and everything inbetween. “I spent so many years learning to save lives, only to have it all taken away. But, then, I realize I’m better off, now. Better off with the powers I gained, the way I can save more lives, now.” He pauses, gazes at Tony with hazy, half-lidded eyes. “Better off with the people, too.”

Tony’s head swims. It’s not exactly Shakespeare, but Stephen’s drunken monologuing is heartfelt. The other man isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so confessions like these are few and far between.

“Sorry,” Stephen mumbles after a moment of contemplative silence, unwrapping his arm from around Tony’s shoulder and clasping his hands together in his lap. “That was sappy. Must be the alcohol talking.”

“It’s okay,” Tony reassures him. “I like sappy.” Because it’s true. And because he thinks he might be falling a little-bit-a-lot in love with Stephen Strange.

\- - -

“Picked you up a little something when I was in Wakanda last week,” Tony says, flashing Stephen a cheshire grin and holding a paper bag out to him.

Stephen reads the text on the bag and quirks an unimpressed brow. “You got me Panera. How thoughtful,” he replies flatly. “You know there are two within walking distance of the Sanctum. I – wait, do they even _have_ Panera in Wakanda?”

“I didn’t get you Panera, dipshit. It was the only leftover bag I had. I – just look inside.”

They’re at Tony’s place, this time, exhausted and battered and still recuperating from an earlier battle with a small legion of sentient, magical man-wolves that looked like they had walked straight out of a Spirit Halloween clearance aisle instead of whatever dimension they came from. Staving off their attack on Manhattan (as he was blasting dog-men in the face, Tony found himself idly wondering why the baddies always seemed to pick New York City to attack; there were plenty better places around the world to unleash nefarious plans upon) and rounding them up for Stephen to warp back to the furry dimension from whence they came wasn’t exactly a _cinch_ , but Tony’s armor, thankfully, had taken the brunt of it. Stephen, however, looked like he’d need a few stitches and a rabies shot. After patching themselves up, Tony had collapsed on the couch in his lounge while Stephen magicked some musty-looking tome from thin air, content to relax and read after a long day. 

Tony had figured now was as good a time as ever to give Stephen the pet project he’d been working on for the past several months. 

He rocks back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. Tony doesn’t know why he’s nervous; there’s a small twist in his stomach, fearful of the possibility Stephen might not like the gift. Might reject it, reject _him_. Tony knows it’s stupid, and he’s a rational person and a realist and shouldn’t be thinking anything along that line of thought, but Stephen just has this way of making him nervous and flustered like a highschooler on prom night. It’s stupid, _Tony_ is being stupid, but he can’t help it as he watches Stephen take the Panera bag and look into it, fishing out the items inside. 

"Gloves?" Stephen murmurs, setting the bag aside and taking one glove into each hand. He examines them closely, running unsteady fingers over sleek fabric filled with nanotechnology that Tony, with the aid of Wakandan technology, has painstakingly poured hours into, perfecting it. _For Stephen,_ his brain reminds him, and Tony shoves that thought to the back of his mind, because he's in a bit deeper than he'd like to be at this point in their relationship or _whatever_ they had going on between them, and the gloves are like a physical manifestation of how ass-backwards Stephen has turned his life by just being himself. 

"I hope you're not too disappointed about not getting Panera," Tony says, "but I designed these for you. To help with the. Y'know. The shaking, and everything. Try them on."

Stephen wordlessly acquiesces, sliding the gloves over his fingers and tugging them down until they end snugly at the juncture between hand and wrist. The tips of his fingers are just visible, the fabric cut off before it completely envelops them. 

Tony rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes fixed on Stephen, watching every subtle movement he makes to gauge his reaction. The other man stares down at his hands, brows furrowed, watching as the tremors that have plagued his hands for so long lessen, slowing down, almost making his hands _normal_ again.

"Tony.." he murmurs, looking up at Tony for a moment before turning his gaze back to his hands once more. "How?"

"The magic of science. I've been working with Shuri on them for the past few months," Tony replies. "She helped me work through most of the kinks and figure out how to make the tech suppress the tremors while still recognizing voluntary movements. They won't completely stop the shaking, but they'll make things a lot more manageable, hopefully. You should be able to fit your sling ring underneath them, too." 

Stephen's staring at him again, and Tony meets his gaze, unable to pinpoint the emotion on his face. Is he happy? Or did Tony fuck up and cross some unspoken line between them – just another in a long line of fuck-ups that was his entire life. The constant rambling voice in his brain filled the silence that extended between them as Stephen slowly raised his hands to eye-level, staring at his hands, curling his fingers in-and-out, in-and-out. 

"Why?" Stephen finally asks.

It's a question Tony has asked himself multiple times over the past several months during the back-and-forth flights to Wakanda, during the long nights he'd spent hunched over his worktable, during the early morning when he would wake with Stephen still asleep next to him, hair stuck up and drool on his pillow. 

"Because you're my friend," Tony answers him. "Because, if they manage to help you at all, I've at least done something right. And you can think of them as a thank-you gift for taking me to the gala."

"Hell of a thank-you gift."

"I'm not exactly famed for my subtlety. You should know that."

"Of course. How could I expect Tony Stark to do anything _less_ than invent new technology to thank someone for a night out," Stephen replies, words punctuated by a good-natured eyeroll. "You know, most people just send cards. Maybe flowers, if they're feeling really grateful."

"C'mon, now, I have a reputation to maintain. People expect things of me." 

"And yet," Stephen murmurs, closing the gap between them to take Tony's face between his mostly-stilled hands, "you always manage to surprise me." 

The material of the gloves is soft against Tony's skin as Stephen's thumbs run over his cheekbones, and the other man bends downward to press a soft kiss to his lips. 

Carding a hand through the hair at the back of Stephen's neck, Tony tugs him down further and kisses him harder, thankful for whatever he's gotten himself neck-deep into with this man.

\- - -

“It’s gonna be Joe. There’s no way they aren’t gonna chop him with the way he cooked his beef.”

“Nuh-uh,” Tony shoots back, voice muffled around a mouthful of popcorn. “The other dude’s going down. Did you _see_ Scott Conant’s face when he found out the guy used raw red onions _again_? You can’t do that two rounds in a row – what was he even thinking?”

“I dunno, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies. “The rest of the judges really liked his stuff.”

“Just wait. You’ll see.”

Tony grabs another handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting in Peter’s lap and pops a few pieces into his mouth. They both sit, enraptured, watching each of the judges offer comments about the dishes that were served to them by the contestants, deliberating the loser of the entrée round. Finally, Ted Allen calls the contestants back into the kitchen to deliver the unfortunate news. 

“Moment of truth, kid,” Tony mutters, eyes glued to the screen. 

“ _So_ ,” Ted Allen says from the TV, “ _whose dish is on the chopping block?_ ”

Peter tenses beside him. Tony’s fingers curl around the popcorn in his hand. Ted Allen lifts the stainless steel cover off to reveal the plate beneath

“ _Chef Ayesha,_ ” Ted Allen says, uncovering her dish, “ _you’ve been chopped_.”

“What!?” Tony exclaims, launching a piece of popcorn at the TV in exasperation. The kernel doesn’t quite make it to the television screen, instead finding its way straight into the face of one Stephen Strange as he steps out of a sparking portal that suddenly opens in front of Tony and Peter. 

Tony watches the popcorn fall limply to the sorcerer's feet, then meets Stephen’s gaze, startled by his sudden appearance.

“..You gonna eat that?” he asks after a moment and nods at the kernel. “Five second rule. Better hurry.”

“I’ll pass,” Stephen replies, voice monotone. 

“Oh, hey, uh..” Peter trails off. “Mister Doctor,” he finishes lamely.

“Strange.”

“You or me?” Peter asks.

Stephen scrubs a hand tiredly down his face. “No, I mean – god, why do I even bother explaining this anymore.”

“Maybe if you picked a better superhero name, this wouldn’t happen so often,” Tony chimes in.

“I didn’t go through a decade of schooling to get my doctorate and _not_ be called ‘doctor.’”

“You do you. I’m just saying, it would make things a hell of a lot easier every time you introduce yourself.” Tony shrugs, pauses the episode of Chopped that’s running in the background on the TV, and eats another handful of popcorn. “Anyway, where were you? You’re late – they’re already about to start the dessert round.”

“I was picking something up from a friend.”

“Anything interesting? Feel like sharing with the class?” Tony asks.

“Ooh, lemme see, too!” Peter pipes up.

“It’s for you, actually, Tony.” Stephen curls his fingers inward and a subtle green glow emanates from his palm for a moment. When he uncurls them, a round object rests in the palm of his hand. 

He holds it out, and Tony takes it, brow furrowed. It’s.. a stone. A flat stone with some etchings on it. Incredible.

“Wow, I’ve always wanted a... rock,” Tony says, unenthused. He flips the stone over in his hand. “Can’t wait to show all of my friends. I bet none of them have a rock this cool. They’ll be jealous.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Peter looking mildly disappointed, frowning down at the stone. Tony glances up at Stephen, who rolls his eyes back at him. “It’s not just _a rock_ ,” Stephen replies, snatching the object from Tony’s hand and holding it upon the flat of his palm once more.

“What, is it a rock with powers? A special wizard rock?”

“Yes, actually.” He can tell Stephen is becoming increasingly aggravated and is tempted to continue pushing his buttons, but Stephen cuts him off before he can make another remark. “It’s called the Eye of True North. It has the power to guide you to anything or anyone you desire.”

“So, it’s.. what, an oversized mood ring? Thought those went out of style in the eighties.”

“It’s not a _mood ring_ ,” Stephen huffs.

“A magic eight ball, then? If I ask it if I want for dinner, will it tell me where to go?”

“No, just – here, I’ll show you, smartass.” Stephen closes his eyes and inhales deeply, holding the stone out for Tony to see. One of the eight prongs of the rune inscribed upon it, the one pointing in Tony’s direction, lights up, glowing the same soft green that it had when Stephen had first conjured it. Stephen opens his eyes. “In your mind, ask the stone a question about what you desire. The _vegvísir_ sigil will guide your way. Here – try it.”

Tony is skeptical, but still takes the stone when it’s passed back to him. _There’s a scientific explanation for everything_ , he tells himself, holding it in his hand and mimicking Stephen’s posture. _There’s got to be one for this, too_.

Staring down at the stone, he traces the _vegvísir_ with his eyes; each of the sigil’s eight arms ends in a geometric fork, all of them differently patterned. He has surface familiarity with the rune, mostly from a book of Norse shit he’d read after Thor had showed up and rocked Earth in all of his Asgardian glory – it’s a wayfinding sigil, though he doubts its wayfinding powers. _All right, rock_ , Tony thinks, squinting at the object and doing his best to project his mind-energy or whatever one was supposed to project in this situation, _show me what I desire_.

The Eye doesn’t do anything for a moment, and Tony is about to shove Stephen’s magical bullshit back up into his face, but then it starts to glow – faintly at first, then the glow strengthens, filling the prong of the _vegvísir_ that’s pointing in Stephen’s direction.

“What did you ask it?” Stephen inquires.

“What I wanted for dinner. Pretty sure it’s pointing at the halal cart downstairs on the streetcorner,” Tony says quickly, attempting to save face and willing the blush that’s creeping up his neck to go the fuck away. 

Stephen snorts. “Only you would use a magical artifact for something so mundane.”

“What’re you giving this to me for, anyway?”

“ _Quid pro quo_. I appreciated the gloves you made me; and, since you doubt my magic at every turn, I figured I would give you something magical to play with. I think you’ll find that _science_ can’t quite explain everything.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to make sure I have this thing on me next time I get lost in a Walmart supercenter so it can show me the way out.”

Stephen snorts. He moves to sit on the other side of Peter on the couch, settling back into the cushions and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of them. “Are we going to watch the dessert round?”

Tony doesn’t quite parse his words, instead fixated on the Eye. The _vegvísir_ is still pointing in Stephen’s direction, but the prong that’s glowing has changed, like it followed him. He feels a warm twist in his stomach and tries not to think about it, even though he knows exactly what it means.

When he looks up, Peter is staring down at the stone, lips in an ‘o’ of realization, his eyes flitting from Tony to Stephen and back again; Tony drops it into his lap before Stephen can see what’s going on, the green glow fading from the Eye. “Yep. Yeah, give me just a second,” he replies, grabbing the remote and hitting play.

“Can I try it, too, Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers beside him.

Tony hands him the stone. “Knock yourself out, kid. Just keep your mouth zipped,” he whispers back.

\- - -

Tony is still pondering what _next_ to give Stephen to top his latest gift when the man himself arrives, unannounced, in his workshop.

“Are you capable of using the front door like a normal human being?” Tony asks, setting down the wire welder he’d had in his hand and flipping his visor up.

Stephen ignores his comment. “I want to take you somewhere,” he says. 

“Uh. Right now?”

Stephen glances at the broken watch on his wrist out of habit, realizes it’s still broken, then slips his gaze to the digital clock sitting at the edge of Tony’s worktable. “In a bit, yes. If you’re able.”

Tony shrugs. “FRIDAY,” he calls out to the omnipresent AI, “cancel whatever plans I had tonight.”

 _”Of course, sir,”_ FRIDAY replies easily.

“You had plans?” Stephen asks.

“Nothing important. Just a dinner with some politician. I’ll have FRIDAY reschedule it later.”

Tony stands, takes his visor off and sets it aside and kicks his stool underneath his worktable. “Just let me shower and get out of these clothes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“I’ll wait in the lounge.”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Tony steps through a portal opened in his living room into the Italian twilight. He gapes, taking in his surroundings as Stephen follows him and closes the portal behind them; they’re on a boat that’s docked at a small port, surrounded by rolling hills and quaint houses and the quiet sound of gentle waves.

Around them, everything is stained in deep blue hues by the twilight; in the distance, soft gold shines through the windows of the small houses that pepper the hillsides in tiny, winking spots of light. The portside is illuminated by warm streetlamps that reflect upon the water like gold paint that bleeds into the sea and cast the colorful, mismatched houses with a mellow glow. Tony can see people meandering down the walkway beside the water; the place is surprisingly vibrant for such a small place, nothing like the sleepy coastal town he would’ve expected at first glance.

He notices Stephen moving around behind him, and tears his eyes from the portside to watch the other man. All around them, small candles levitate in the air and Stephen flicks a flame to the wick of each one, illuminating the boat with soft, flickering light. It gives the boat an incredibly dreamy air; Tony had no idea Stephen could be such a romantic.

“I’m loving the ambiance here, but aren’t you afraid that everyone out there is going to, uh, _notice_ us?” Tony asks, jerking a thumb in the direction of the bustling boardwalk.

Stephen turns to face him and moves his hands like he’s about to cast some sort of spell, and Tony’s suddenly surrounded by the sound of fracturing glass and a feeling like he’s being absorbed into something. It’s a quick, surreal moment, and when it’s over, everything around him looks the same.

“We’re in the mirror dimension, now,” Stephen replies, turning back to face the rest of the candles and continue lighting them. “We’re cloaked from their view. They’ll just see an empty boat.”

“Ooh, kinky,” Tony replies, grinning. “Like we’re in public but also not.”

“Mmhm.”

Tony sits down on one of the cushions that have been strewn across the soft blanket spread over the deck of the boat. Stephen joins him after a moment, lit candles now floating all around them, settling next to Tony.

“Hungry?” he asks, brow raised.

“Starving.”

Stephen chuckles. He moves his hands in a quick, circular motion before them, conjuring a small shower of sparks akin to the ones that form his portals. Before Tony blinks, there’s still nothing; after he blinks, just a microsecond later, there’s an open picnic basket resting on the blanket before them, filled with Tony’s favorite foods. Stephen plucks a bottle of wine from the basket and conjures up two glasses, holding their stems between his fingers and pouring the vintage into them. 

One is extended to Tony, who takes it, trying not to let the _what the fuck_ he’s feeling inside show on his face, because, really, he should be _used_ to this by now. He knows he should – he’s been seeing and fucking a goddamn, bona-fide _sorcerer_ and the past several months of his life have been filled with some of the most absolutely inexplicable moments he’s ever experienced, but this takes the cake. Stephen’s gone all in, and all out. 

“All right,” Tony huffs. “All right, this is _so_ not fair.” He’s never been much of a graceful loser, and getting one-upped _this_ hard hits him right in his pride. He’s definitely not pouting. That’s just his face.

“What isn’t?” Stephen replies, brow quirked nonchalantly, acting like transporting them through some wizard-fuckery-wormhole all the way to Italy and conjuring up the world’s most romantic boat picnic is no big deal.

“ _You_ , using your bullshit World of Warcraft powers. Not fair at all.” Tony throws his hands up. “I give up. You win. I can’t beat this.”

“Win what?”

Tony stares at him, mouth hanging open. “Are you – are you fucking with me, right now? You win this.. _thing_ we’ve been doing. You’ve topped me. I can’t one-up this.”

Stephen stares blankly at him. “I wasn’t aware we we’ve been doing a ‘thing.’”

“You’re kidding me,” Tony retorts. “This game we’ve been playing. You, me, all of these gifts and renting out restaurants and going to galas and taking trips – that _thing_.”

A hand settles on Tony’s, Stephen’s scarred fingers wrapping around his, the other man staring at him with sincerity in his eyes. “For such an incredibly smart man, you can be incredibly _thick_ sometimes, Tony,” he says slowly. 

“I’m flattered.” The sarcasm in Tony’s voice is almost as thick as Stephen apparently thinks he is.

“I’m not playing whatever game you are,” Stephen says. “I haven’t been.”

“Then what is this, then?” Tony points at Stephen, then at himself. “What are _we_?”

“ _This_ has been me trying to tell you how I feel about what _we_ could be.” Stephen pauses, contemplates his words. “What I would _like_ us to be.”

“Great.” Tony presses a palm to his forehead, amazed by his own stupidity. “Great, now I feel like a total asshole. I’ve been treating this like some kind of ‘I can do you one better’ competition, while you’ve been over here – wait,” he stops, stiffens, eyes widening as he looks at Stephen. “Have you been _courting_ me?”

“I have been for the past several months, yes,” Stephen replies, exasperation lacing his words. “Thank you for noticing.”

“ _Me_ ,” Tony says, the disbelief obvious in his voice.

“You.”

“Being _courted_.”

“Yes.”

“You want a relationship.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Like, beyond just sex.”

“Hopefully still including, but yes.”

“Us. Dating.”

“That was my end goal,” Stephen says, smiling. “If you would like to, of course.”

“ _Like to_?” Sliding his fingers between those of Stephen’s hand that is curled around his own, Tony lets out a disbelieving laugh. “God, I’ve wanted nothing else for months now.”

Stephen ducks his head. There’s a look of relief on his face. “Good,” he murmurs.

“Wait.” Tony reaches out, tilts Stephen's chin up with his thumb and forefinger and looks him in the eyes. “Were you afraid I’d say no?”

“I had considered the possibility of rejection, yes. I’d thought that perhaps you would be content to simply continue the arrangement we had without the addition of a romantic element, or weren’t looking for a committed relationship after having recently broken off a long-term one.”

“What, you couldn't have just consulted your crystal ball to see what I would say?”

“You’re always changing, Tony,” Stephen says. “I can never see exactly what you’ll do. Only the possible paths you might take. You’re an enigma.”

“And that thing, on Titan. When you saw all of the possible outcomes of our fight with Thanos. What did you see, then?”

“Fourteen million different futures. In nearly all of them, I found myself in love with you.” Stephen pauses. “In only one would I ever – would _we_ ever – have a chance. This one.”

“Guess we’d better make the best of this one, then,” Tony replies, sliding his hand around the back of Stephen’s neck and bringing him in for a kiss. He can feel Stephen’s lips smile against his mouth, and the other man reciprocates softly, at first, dragging the moment out and letting the chasteness linger. 

Stephen’s hands slide up Tony’s chest, palms flat and warm and entirely welcome, and continue upward until he’s cupping Tony’s face, bringing him closer, kissing him _harder_. Tony leans back and props himself up on his elbows, Stephen shifting and settling one knee outside each of his thighs, straddling Tony and slowly guiding him down to lay with his back upon the cushions. Tony is all-too-amenable, and he’s about to surrender himself completely when the neglected and still very-much-full wineglasses sitting on the deck, lonely, catch his eye.

“Just a sec,” he tells Stephen, rolling over and grabbing one in each hand. He downs the wine inside each with the vigor of a college freshman slamming shots at a pregame and wipes the excess from his mouth with the back of a hand, setting the now-emptied glasses back where they were. “Now, where were we..”

Tony tugs Stephen down by the lapels and brings their lips together again, pointedly ignoring Stephen’s eyeroll at his antics. Stephen takes control and deepens the kiss, setting a slow, meandering pace, taking his time to explore Tony’s mouth. He rolls Tony’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, laving his tongue over it, drinking in the muffled moan that rumbles in Tony’s throat.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes when Stephen finally pulls away and begins pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against his jaw. He slips his hands down to tug at the belts holding Stephen’s robes closed, unbuckling and untying and un-everything-ing them as best he can. “Why do you have to wear so many fucking _belts_?” he hisses.

Stephen chuckles against his skin but doesn’t stop his ministrations. With a simple wave of his hand, the belts unbuckle themselves, and Tony strips them off and pulls Stephen’s robes open and off his shoulders. He’s thankful that the cloak, apparently, had been foregone for the night – he wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with that _thing_ watching them fuck right now.

Stephen presses a kiss to his throat and _bites_ , rolling the skin between his teeth and sliding his tongue against it. For the months they’ve spent fucking, Stephen has always been meticulous about his marking, careful not to leave hickeys where Tony can’t hide them, because there had been no relationship between them. Tony had belonged to nobody but himself. But, now, Stephen leaves a trail of burning bruises across his throat, because Tony is _his_. A fire ignites low in Tony’s stomach at the thought, going straight to his cock and making him harder than he’d ever been because he’s _Stephen’s_ , just as Stephen is his. The bruises are like the sorcerer’s message to the world – this man belongs to _me_.

The robes fall to the ground, forgotten, and Tony is quick to divest himself of his own shirt. He needs to touch, needs to explore Stephen’s body like it’s the first time even though they’ve been doing this for months, because it _feels_ like the first time, again. Hands slide over Stephen’s firm chest, fingers ghosting over nipples that pebble at the sensation, down over his taut stomach and sliding behind his back to grip his ass, press their bodies close and hot together and grind Stephen’s cock against his own. Tony moans at the sensation, and the sound is echoed by Stephen.

“God, I need you – need you to touch me,” Tony groans, voice barely above a whisper. 

Stephen’s hand slides down between their bodies, cups Tony through his pants and rolls his palm against him; then, it’s gone – just a tease, like the bastard he is. Tony rolls his hips up against Stephen’s for that, grinding their cocks together again and relishing the sound the other man makes. He tugs at the waistband of Stephen’s pants, fingers dipping beneath it, then finds his hands stilled.

Tony glances down and sees bright bands of glowing orange runes encircling his wrists, rendering his hands immobile. Stephen pulls back, takes Tony’s wrists in his hands and pins them above his head; with a wave of a finger, the runes are replaced by ropes of the same magical material, binding him.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Stephen whispers by his ear, voice low. A growl. “Let me take care of you, tonight.”

Tony’s never been able to say no to that. He lets Stephen pin his arms above his head, holding his wrists together tighter than the ropes had. He lets Stephen tug his pants and briefs off, exposing his aching cock to the cool night air. He lets Stephen tease him, thumb ghosting over the head of his member, fingers trailing up and down Tony’s thighs, making him writhe and buck his hips in desperation for relief. He lets, and lets, because he knows Stephen likes to be in control, likes to have things his way and watch Tony squirm and beg, and Tony _loves_ it.

Stephen trails fire-hot kisses down Tony’s stomach, pausing to suck a bruise into his hip. One palm wrapped around Tony’s cock, he takes him into his mouth, tongue swirling over the head, tracing down the veins. He hollows his cheeks and slowly, _slowly_ takes all of him in, throat working around the cock in his mouth while his eyes are focused elsewhere, heavy-lidded gaze meeting Tony. A strangled moan slips from Tony’s lips and he can’t help the way he involuntarily bucks up into Stephen’s mouth, hips rolling and writhing because he’s so close, he can feel it building in the pit of his stomach, Stephen’s about to bring him to the _edge_ –– and then it’s gone. The warm, wet heat of Stephen’s mouth disappears when Stephen unceremoniously pulls back from Tony’s cock, leaving it hard and neglected and, _god_ , Tony would frog punch him right now if his hands weren’t still tied.

“Stephen,” he breathes, the other man’s name leaving his lips in a whine. “Fuck me already.”

“What was that?” Stephen asks, breath hot against Tony’s throat as he presses a kiss there.

“I said, _fuck me_.”

“Try again.” A thumb circles one of Tony’s nipples, peaking it, and is quickly replaced by Stephen’s mouth, tongue tracing circles around the stiffened bud.

Tony knows what Stephen wants him to say, and he’s all-too-willing to give in if it means that he’ll finally get the relief he desires. “ _Please_ ,” he acquiesces, “please, just fuck me. I need you.”

“Better,” Stephen says. He tugs his own pants and undergarments off and takes one of Tony’s thighs in each hand, spreading them wide and settling between them. Tony wraps them around Stephen’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back and pressing their bodies together, cocks sliding against eachother.

“Fuck,” Tony moans, like it’s the only word he can say because his brain is short-circuiting with all of the sensations of Stephen’s hands and mouth on him at once. “Do you have –”

His words are cut off when a condom packet materializes in Stephen’s hand, the sorcerer apparently one step ahead of his thoughts. “Of course you do,” Tony snorts. The packet is quickly torn open and discarded, the other man rolling the condom onto his own cock.

Stephen smiles slyly at him and murmurs a cantrip, moving two fingers in slow circles. Tony watches, enraptured, as the digits are coated with slick lubricant. He brings his fingers to Tony’s hole and teases him for a moment, then pushes inside. 

Tony’s head falls back against the cushions and he bites his lower lip, grinding against the fingers that move and stretch inside him. Stephen repeats the same cantrip as before, and more lubricant slicks his hole, warm and thick. 

“Need you inside me,” Tony murmurs, legs tightening around Stephen’s waist. “Please.”

Stephen nods and lines himself up, slowly pushing inside. The spell binding Tony’s wrists sparks out, releasing him, and Tony instantly wraps his hands around Stephen’s neck and kisses him, hard and hot and biting. Stephen’s tongue moves in time with his thrusts as he sets a steady pace. 

“You’re amazing,” Tony breathes, breaking the kiss and choking on the end of his words when Stephen hits that perfect spot inside him. 

Stephen doesn’t respond, just thrusts harder and slides a hand between them to wrap around Tony’s cock and pump it languidly, kissing down Tony’s neck in adoration. Tony holds on, bites down on the other man’s shoulder as the pace quickens, moaning and writhing and bucking against him.

The cock inside him moves faster, Stephen’s breaths come out in short bursts, and Tony grinds down on him in desperation. He can feel his orgasm building up, tightening his stomach once more, and this time Stephen doesn’t stop touching him – he thumbs the slit on the head of his cock, works his member skillfully, aware of Tony’s every breath, every movement, completely in tune with his body. 

Tony cries out, muffled against Stephen’s skin when he comes all over the other man’s hand and his own stomach. Stephen doesn’t stop, just thrusts faster and harder, moving his hands to grip Tony’s hips with bruising fervor. His pace grows more erratic as his own orgasm builds, and Tony feels him shudder, his hips stuttering, and feels Stephen’s release inside of him. 

Spent, they collapse together, still breathing hard, Stephen pulling Tony’s back to his own chest and curling around him protectively, pressing a chaste kiss to one of the purpled bruises he left on Tony’s neck. 

A nose burrows into the hair at the back of Tony’s neck, breath soft and warm against him. One of Stephen’s hands wraps around his waist and his thumb idly traces patterns into the skin on Tony’s stomach contentedly. 

“You know,” Tony murmurs, “in those fourteen million futures, I would’ve loved you back, too.”

Stephen smiles against his neck. “You would have?”

“Mm. But I’m glad to have you in this one.”

A kiss is pressed to his skin, and Tony knows Stephen agrees.

 

When Stephen warps them back to the Sanctum the next morning, still disheveled and dirty and both looking thoroughly fucked from their night spent on the boat, they arrive to find Wong and Peter staring intensely at Peter’s laptop playing Portal. 

“Uh. What are you doing here, kid?” Tony asks, suddenly _very_ aware of what he and Stephen both must look like.

Peter and Wong both whip around, the game momentarily forgotten in favor of gawking at the newly-arrived men.

“I came by to ask Mr. Strange about something and he wasn’t here, but Wong was, so we ended up hanging out.” He points to the laptop screen. “I was showing him Portal. Anyway, Mr. Stark, where were you guys? And why are you..” Peter trails off quizzically, “..wearing eachother's pants?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Tony curses, suddenly realizing why his pants felt suspiciously long on him today. Stephen echoes him, staring down at his own legs. In their hurry to get dressed and get home, they must’ve put on the wrong garments, he realizes.

“Um.” Stephen rubs the back of his neck awkwardly with a hand.

Mouth hanging open, realization dawns on Peter’s face.

“ _I knew it!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to iridian, who dragged me into this ship with her and convinced me to write this fic. And much love to the ironstrange discord for being incredible and helpful! apologies for any canon/ability discrepancies – this is my first time writing MCU fic and I'm testing the waters with characterization and everything else.
> 
> also, Stephen definitely got the Eye of True North from Nina the Conjuror just for Tony.
> 
> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/feywilde) or [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com/) to gush with me about this ship


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